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            Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store,
       Though foolishly he lost the same,
             Decaying more and more,
                   Till he became
                         Most poore:
                         With thee
                   O let me rise
             As larks, harmoniously,
       And sing this day thy victories:
 Then shall the fall further the flight in me.
  My tender age in sorrow did beginne
       And still with sicknesses and shame.
             Thou didst so punish sinne,
                   That I became
                         Most thinne.
                         With thee
                   Let me combine,
             And feel thy victorie:
          For, if I imp my wing on thine,
 Affliction shall advance the flight in me.